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That’s true.
“When you’ve exhausted all your resources, son, maybe you should try to put the situation in God’s hands. If anyone can work it out, he can.”
Mom balks, and Pop’s eyes slide to her.
“What?”
“Once he’s exhausted all his resources?! You should have put it in God’s hands to begin with. That’s why you are in such a mess now. Trying to handle things yourself.”
“Mom, I haven’t exactly been on the good side of grace for a long time now. Pretty sure Pastor Humphries prayed me straight out of God’s hands decades ago.”
“Nonsense. Pastor Humphries is a good man who does the Lord’s work. You might not have been his favorite person, running off with his little girl the way you did, but I’m sure when he talks to God about you, it’s with a loving and forgiving heart.”
Pop and I exchange knowing looks. There is zero chance the man has a good word to say about me to the maker. He might be a godly man, but no one is that holy.
“What if she can’t forgive me?” I ask.
“That’s not up to you. That choice is hers. All you can do is give her all the facts and let her decide,” Mom answers.
I’ve never been good with words. Not when it counts. I feel everything, but I don’t know how to communicate it until it’s too late. That’s why I write. I say everything within the lines of a song that I can’t say in the moment. I know that doesn’t make it okay. But it’s the truth. My heart pours out on the paper better than it pours out anywhere else, but it’s real and true and one hundred percent me.
“Maybe I should write her a song,” I suggest.
Pop laughs. “This is one confession I don’t think is going to make good music, son. Just talk to the girl.”
